


Most Reluctant

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My apologies," Larsa says. "I admit I've grown impatient, waiting to see you."</p><p>[ending spoilers]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Most Reluctant

He wakes when the mattress dips beside him, rolling him toward the warmth of another body. "I thought you said you'd not disturb my rest," he says.

"My apologies," Larsa says. "I admit I've grown impatient, waiting to see you."

Noah's eyes fly open. "Your Grace," he says. He pushes himself upright, grateful that his recovery goes that well, at least. "I am sorry -- I -- had I known it was you, and not my brother --"

"Gabranth," Larsa says, and pauses. He bows his head, smiling faintly. "Your brother tells me that is not your name."

"I have answered to it since before you were born," Noah says. "I would not ask you to change your habits now."

"You would not ask anything of me, it seems," Larsa says, "save the one thing I am most reluctant to give you."

"Your Grace," Noah protests. "I would not --"

Larsa takes his hand, and he falters. "I have lost so many of the people close to me, in this last year," Larsa says. "I would not be deprived of your company as well. Basch is a good man and a capable advisor, but he is not you."

"For all that we have often now passed for one another," Noah says. Larsa's hand is gloved, warm in his own, still delicate if not perhaps as delicate as it once was.

"You are not alike in all things," Larsa says. He laughs softly, so that Noah looks up to meet his eyes. "Your brother's chess game is appalling."

Noah laughs, too, in surprise, and Larsa squeezes his hand. "I will tell him, the next time I see him, that the emperor finds him wanting." He shakes his head. "Truly, when I first came to Archadia, mine was much the same. Had it not been for the lessons I had from Zargabaath, and from Drace --" and he stops, the words caught in his throat, the pain still sharp.

"I would not," Larsa says haltingly. "I pray you will not think me disrespectful, but I -- I would not speak, today, of the dead. Rather I would -- I would be grateful that you are still with me."

"And will be," Noah promises, "as long as I may, Your Grace."

"Call me by name," Larsa says. "I hear enough of 'Your Grace' all day from men I care for far less than you. When I was a boy, you did not hesitate."

You are still a boy, Noah does not say. "It is audacious enough to be familiar with the Emperor's second son," he says instead. "It is far more so to address the Emperor himself as a friend."

Larsa's eyes are dark, intent, perhaps -- just faintly -- pleading. "Are we not friends?"

"I am honored that you would name me so," Noah says. "Larsa."

The smile that earns him in return is immediate and warm, and Noah thinks that if he can but treasure the present moment, rather than regretting what has gone before or worrying about what is to come, perhaps for a time he can be happy. Having Larsa here lifts his spirits, makes him think that perhaps his recovery is nearer than he has let himself believe.

And then Larsa leans forward, the mattress creaking beneath him as he moves, and presses his lips to Noah's. He does so gently, almost delicately, his lips soft and dry, and yet Noah cannot help flinching.

"That is -- rather more than friendship, Your Grace," he says, when Larsa sits back.

The hurt on Larsa's face makes him regret it instantly. "And that is rather less than kindness, Judge Gabranth."

"Forgive me," Noah says, catching Larsa's hand when he would pull back. "It is only -- I am sworn to protect you," and he catches himself in time to not use the title again, "Larsa. I am three times your age. Should anyone else in such circumstances make advances to you, or even accept your own --"

"Anyone else," Larsa interrupts, his voice shaking, "would not be welcome. You are."

The silence feels so close, so powerful, that for a moment Noah can hardly breathe. The seriousness of the admission, particularly now, is not lost on him -- the emperor's favor is a thing of no little value, especially with the fate of the empire itself at such a crossroads.

"You honor me," Noah says at last. It is the only answer he feels sure of. He has not let go of Larsa's hand.

"I know it is -- I know there are good reasons for you to refuse me," Larsa says, and Noah can see in the taut set of his shoulders how difficult the admission is for him. "But -- please, if you do, let it not be for -- for fear that I know not my own mind."

Noah swallows. "You are so young," he says. It is not the same as saying no.

Larsa almost smiles, the expression wry and older than his years. "Old enough to rule," he says, "and that without a regent."

Basch has told Noah that story, how the two surviving Magisters announced to the newly reinstated Senate that it would be regarded as high treason for any to suggest that the young emperor was unfit to rule in his own name. _Mostly I loomed, while Zargabaath did the talking_, he said. _This armor of yours is quite conducive to looming._

"There are those who would argue that point," Noah says, before conceding, "though I am not among them."

Larsa watches him, quiet and solemn, waiting.

Noah is the first to look down -- at their clasped hands, lying together on the bedclothes. "You have much to learn of seduction," he finds himself saying.

"Will you teach me?" Larsa asks.

"I am no master in the art," Noah says. He takes Larsa's wrist in one hand, and with the other carefully pulls free the brushed white suede of his glove. Beneath it, Larsa's fingers are fine and slender, stained with ink that scrubbing has not entirely worn away. His fingertips feel cool to the touch when Noah lifts them to his lips, and his breath hitches audibly.

"You seek to mislead me," he accuses, his voice unsteady and his cheeks faintly flushed. "There is nothing lacking in your skills."

You have little to compare, Noah thinks. "You offer little resistance," he says instead. "It is not difficult to seduce someone who is visiting for the purpose." He pulls gently, so Larsa's hand skims past his cheek, and turns to press his lips to the inside of Larsa's wrist, just at the lace edge of his sleeve.

"And you?" Larsa asks softly, shifting closer, steadying himself with a hand on Noah's shoulder as he climbs more fully onto the bed. "Would you offer less resistance now, should I kiss you again?"

"I would," Noah breathes. He tilts his head up as both of Larsa's hands settle on his shoulders, as Larsa straddles one of his thighs and leans in to claim his mouth.

Noah rests his hands against Larsa's waist, and parts his lips for the first cautious feint of Larsa's tongue. He should not encourage this -- he is old enough to know better, to be the one with restraint, to know why, for Larsa of all people, merely wanting it is not enough. But he cannot bring himself to refuse, to deny this, when he knows the depth of feeling that underlies the act -- he has had little doubt of Larsa's heart since the moment when Larsa stood between him and Vayne's magicite sword.

For that, then, for the trust and honor that Larsa bestows on him without care for whether he is worthy -- and there is a name for that unreasoned kindness, though Noah will not allow himself to think it -- he can accept this kiss, accept it and return it, coaxing soft moans from Larsa's throat. It has been a long time since he shared something like this with anyone, and he blames that for how readily his body responds. Larsa kisses clumsily at first, but he improves quickly, and -- and perhaps that means that he is only now learning, but -- but Noah cannot let himself think too hard on that.

"Gabranth," Larsa murmurs, his arms sliding around Noah's neck as he leans closer, his body slight but solid and warm through layers of silk and linen. "I want." He presses his lips to Noah's throat, and his arms tighten. Noah holds him, carefully. "I want, I -- please -- I want you to," and it is so unlike him to be so tongue-tied that Noah fears he knows the substance of this request even before Larsa finishes, barely audible, "to be my first."

Noah shudders. "Larsa," he says hoarsely. "If -- if that is still what you want, when you are ready, I --"

"No," Larsa interrupts. "Do not put me off. I know what I want. I -- I will not wait, and -- I have nearly lost you once; do not --" His hands clench in the fabric of Noah's nightshirt.

"I cannot," Noah says, and finds himself despite his best intentions going on -- "I cannot deny you."

Larsa covers his face with kisses, desperate with relief, trembling -- but not so overcome that he cannot reach down, taking Noah's hand and guiding it toward the front of his leggings, where beneath the velvet he is plainly already hard.

"Gods," Noah whispers. He presses harder, strokes slowly, and Larsa clings to him.

"Please," Larsa answers, pushing into his touch. "Please, please."

He ought not do this, he knows he ought not; if he stopped he could think of a thousand reasons -- but he does not stop, pulling down the soft fabric and touching the even softer skin of Larsa's cock. Larsa moans, when Noah takes a grip on him -- and tries, oh gods, tries not to think of how delicate he feels.

This will not last long, Noah thinks, as Larsa thrusts into his hand -- emperor or no, Larsa is young, and inexperienced, and if the sweet needy sounds he makes are any indication, he is already close. Perhaps this is no solution to the problem of Larsa's request, but it may be at least a means to delay it.

Noah pulls Larsa closer, kissing the pulse point under his jaw, nuzzling at his throat, humming low and hungry. "Is it good?" he asks, breathing the words in Larsa's ear. "You like how I touch you?"

"Yes," Larsa says. He's shaking. "Yes, yes. Gabranth --" and his voice catches in his throat, fails him as he trembles and tenses and spills over Noah's hand, droplets of warm fluid spattering Noah's nightshirt -- and he'd be dismayed at the mess, perhaps, were he not so relieved that there _is_ fluid at all.

When Larsa recovers enough to pull back -- sitting back on his heels, his weight resting uncomfortably on Noah's knees -- he looks so stricken that Noah's stomach lurches. "Larsa -- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I --"

Larsa stops his apology with another kiss, holding close until Noah manages to relax at least slightly. "Don't," he says then. "Don't be sorry. I -- _I'm_ sorry to have," he looks down between them, "not lasted at all."

"You need not apologize," Noah says. "Please, Larsa, don't. It's fine." He rests a hand against Larsa's hip to comfort him. "There will be time enough. I promise."

"At least," Larsa says. His cheeks are flushed. "At least let me...." He reaches down unerringly and presses his hand to Noah's cock, through the sheet, through Noah's nightshirt. As much as he might wish otherwise, Noah is half-hard. "Let me touch you."

He should refuse; he knows that. "If you wish it," Noah says instead.

Larsa nods. "I do," he says. He pulls the sheet down, fumbles with the hem of Noah's nightshirt, and then his hand is _there_, smooth and soft and warm, closing around the shaft of Noah's cock -- awkward, perhaps, but not hesitant at all.

"Gods," Noah breathes. "Here." He pulls Larsa down beside him, trying not to think too hard on how delicate Larsa feels in his arms, how small.

"This is all right?" Larsa asks, as he shifts his grip and tries out a slow, steady stroke.

"More than all right," Noah says. He pushes into the touch, shamefully hard already as Larsa grows more confident, leaning in against him, brushing soft kisses against his shoulder and stroking him faster, harder. Larsa's hand barely encircles his cock, and that should give him pause, should make him pull away, but instead he's thrusting, holding on tight to Larsa and -- he blames the isolation, the long restless hours of his recuperation, for how quickly he surrenders to the pleasure of it, how easily he gives in, how hard he shudders when Larsa brings him to climax like this.

His first instinct, when he catches his breath, is to apologize again, but he swallows the words. "Larsa," he says instead. "You -- is this what you wanted?"

Larsa ducks his head, half-hides his smile against Noah's chest. "Some of it," he says. "The first of it, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Noah agrees. "I think it likely." He will not name this warmth, which is part relief and part pleasure and part something more noble than that. "I...would be happy to receive you, should you care to come visit me again."

"And when you are well?" Larsa asks. He must know the answer to that, but if he wants to hear it said, then Noah is glad to oblige him.

"Then I will be at your side," Noah promises. "And anything that I can give you --" He hesitates. "I will give with all my heart."


End file.
